A Man's Name
by chromyzone
Summary: At the conclusion of A Man Escaped, Fontaine & Jost are seen walking into the night, without shoes and without a plan for the future. What did they do after escaping Fort MontLuc?


A Man's Name

I learned early on never to ask him his true name, for I knew I would never get a true answer. Sometimes he would joke, and say, "_La viege marie_." But most times he just kept looking at me, a small smile on his face and sadness behind his eyes. Only after a few short months in Switzerland, he received a letter. I could tell from the way his shoulder's sagged that somebody had died. Maybe as a result of his escape, a punishment from the Germans. After that, he was especially tight-lipped with me.

Zurich was a beautiful city, and I fell in love with it. By this time, I had just turned 17. When we left Fort Montluc behind, Fontaine encouraged me to go back to my hometown, to see my mother. He even offered to accompany me there. After that, he said, he would go to Switzerland and join his comrades. There was a part of me that truly, deeply wanted to go home. I could imagine my mother's tears, my sisters' laughter. But I was a man now, and I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to be strong and fight and persevere, just as I had seen Fontaine. I had already failed, joining the wrong team and deserting not out a sense of justice, but because I was scared. This could be my chance to right my wrongs.

Following him to Switzerland seemed like the best idea, too, because maybe I could find a way to repay him for my freedom. There's a saying, isn't there, 'Saving a man's life will only bring you misery?' Of course, Fontaine didn't want me. Here was a stupid, almost illiterate boy with no real skills wanting 'make a difference' and 'pay back his debts.' When it was clear that I wasn't taking no for answer, he finally said, "Jost, I never intend to have my freedoms taken from me again. I will never take your right as you wish to live from you." And so it was agreed. He basically told me that he was going to do his own thing, and I could do mine. And my choice was to go with him.

How fresh faced and eager I must have been then. Little did I know that he would never let me attend a meeting, never let me know a thing.

When we first arrived in Zurich, it was daylight. I remember this because for the many weeks before our arrival, we only traveled at night. Our journey took us much longer than I would have guessed, for we stopped many times at various homes. I don't remember their faces very much; and their voices were most often hushed. They spoke with eyes cast down and mouths solemn. But they gave us their beds, feds us their food. They were giving, always giving. From just the first few stops, we had gotten shoes, warmer clothing and new paperwork. Whenever we left a home, each occupant would hold our hands, murmuring Fontaine's favorite word like a mantra, "Courage, courage, courage." Their words followed us like a trail of fine dust.

The train systems were regulated by the Nazis, regularly halted and searched. So we took to the country roads, walking for miles. I always wondered during this time, if he was happy to have a companion. We didn't talk very much, but every once and a while I wrangled information out of him. He was, as far as I could guess, part of the Résistance. But before that, he was a schoolteacher, a soldier in the French army. He lived in Lyon, and then got arrested. This was all he let me know.

As I said before, Zurich was a beautiful city, but our flat was not very nice. I never complained, and of course, neither did Fontaine. It had three small rooms – one bedroom, one bathroom and a kitchen that also served as a living room. I insisted that I sleep on the couch, and always made sure to have a meal ready for Fontaine whenever he got home from whatever meetings he always went to. It was rough at first, because I didn't know how to cook. I could only really prepare already bought things, bread, cheese, and fruit if we could afford it. He eventually had to teach me how to cook in his spare time. Admittedly, he wasn't very good either. Fontaine got me a job working for nondescript newspaper, where I made deliveries and errands. Fontaine was always writing, and I wanted to write, too. When I found a box full of Résistance propaganda papers, I dove straight into them, trying to learn from them as fast as I could. On the back of these, I always saw the name, _Valentin_. There were small unintelligible notes accompanying the name each time, and I began to believe that this was Fontaine's true name. I tried to remember back to the weeks when we travelled in the French countryside, and could have sworn I heard that name whispered before.

I started writing myself, when I had learned better grammar and vocabulary from my job at the newspaper and my covert readings at home. I decided my pen name was to be Valentin. I was always trying to glean information about the Résistance from talking with Fontaine. He wasn't very much use, and I began talking with the men who sold me cigarettes at the store. That's when I met Rosa. She was the daughter of Gilbert Devigny, who owned the Devigny General Store. Her father was a major player in the Zurich Résistance Scene. Rosa was my age, and though she was just finishing up school, she was very interested in writing for the cause. Her father was much more talkative than Fontaine. With the information she got from talking at dinner, we began crafting essays. We never showed anyone our first ones, because we knew they were not good enough. But our young minds began seeing clearer, finding bits of news and events that were more powerful and better reaching to talk about.

When we had our first successful essay written, I showed it to Fontaine. He asked two questions. The first, "Where did you come up with this pen name?" I lied to him, saying it was the name of my father. He nodded and gave me a curious look. The second, "May I keep this?" Of course I said yes, but I wanted to know what he was going to do with it. I asked him if he was going to destroy it, or if he was going to help me publish it. At the word 'publish', he got a glint in his eye, and the small smile he always wore barely broadened. "_Peut-être, mon fils._"

It was the first time he ever called me anything other than Jost. It was then I knew I had done something good, that this was my calling. If I were to live up to being Fontaine having called me his son, then I would become the very best writer for the Résistance movement. Rosa and I wrote, gave them to Fontaine, and watched our articles pass folded and secret into the hands of thousands.

When the accidental bombings happened first in Strauffhausen and then eventually Zurich, Fontaine decided it was time to leave Switzerland. He was going to Spain this time, though for what exactly, I was not sure. Maybe the Switzerland network was moving to Spain, and they needed Fontaine to relocate too. Again, he gave me a choice, of whether I wanted to go my own way or remain with him.

By this time, Rosa and I had already planned to marry, and she wanted to be near her father to help him with the store. We were saving up to buy a printing press from a man Fontaine had introduced to us. I was deeply saddened to tell Fontaine that I would not be joining him. But I could see for a long time that he was ready to leave, his eyes had gotten that far off look they had when I first met him at MontLuc. His posture held the same hunger and longing for a new place. I knew the real Fontaine, whatever his name was, had already left months before his telling me.

Valentin's name was alive and well, however. His influence was picking up outside of Zurich, catching onto the outskirts of town, moving into the French territory. Rosa and I began building our own network of Résistance sympathizers, adding them to own paper staff. It was only after Fontaine left that I began to learn more things about him. From off stories and vague allusions, I heard about Fontaine's second arrest and second escape. It brought such a smile to my face, imagining Fontaine's precise and well-orchestrated methods of escape. When Fontaine's old Résistance circle reached out to me with letters addressed in my name, I started a memorable (though sparse) discourse with Fontaine over the years. He joined the army again, fighting for the liberation of Alsace. I wrote to him as a son and friend, asking for guidance and serving cheeky comments. He wrote to me as a father and friend, offering advice and dry jokes.

The war ended and Rosa, with tears in her eyes, held my hands and said, "Valentin, he helped make this happen." I smiled down at her and agreed. Valentin, Fontaine, _mon pêre_, I thank you for help, for making this happen.

/

_A/N_: Valentin was Andre Devigny's code name during his participation in the Résistance.


End file.
